Work Text:
the art of subtlety
Soap’s body aches as he slowly blinks awake, a dull pinch of pain throbbing over his brow. He groans, lifting his hand to trace his fingers lightly over the stitches there. A gruelling few days in the field had taken their toll on his reflexes and he’d ducked just a split second too late.
Could’ve been worse though, he muses. At least he didn’t lose an eye and his head is still otherwise intact.
He’s quite content to lay there for a while, warm with sleep and as comfortable as he’s ever about to be on the stiff barrack mattress. A hazy memory drifts through his mind of his eyes falling shut last night with the shape of a broad chest against his back, a strong arm slung over his stomach and long legs tucked up behind his own. Memory, or dream? He isn’t sure which. Perhaps both. It’s comforting all the same.
Eventually, the ache in his head spikes from an irritating pinch to a sharp, pulsing pain, too insistent to ignore. He groans, pushing himself upright—and has to stop still as the edges of his vision swim. Breathing evenly, he waits for the surge of dizziness to pass. When it does, he blinks his eyes open to find a packet of painkillers and a plastic cup on the tiny bedside table. He takes two, swallowing them down with a long chug of water and grimaces at the aftertaste.
From what he remembers the medic telling him, he’ll feel worse for taking the pills on an empty stomach. With a reluctant sigh, he hauls himself onto his feet; the dizziness is minimal this time, though his head pounds. He yawns again as he searches through bleary eyes for something to throw on, not wanting to scar the rookies by wandering around the halls shirtless and mildly concussed.
There’s a black hoodie thrown over the back of the chair and he quickly pulls it on. He vaguely registers how big it is on him, the hem reaching his thighs and his hands just about poking out the ends of the sleeves—but it’s comfy and smells nice so he doesn’t really think much about it.
The corridors are quiet, the early morning sun shining pale rays through the windows. It’s colder than he thought and he’s glad for the warmth of the hoodie, tucking his hands into the front pouch and huddling inside it.
When he rounds the corner to the mess, his stomach gurgles loudly. Thankfully there’s no one near him to hear it, but as he pushes through the doors and heads to grab himself some food, he notices he’s getting a few stares from the marines hanging about.
Probably just drawing attention with his fresh stitches, he reminds himself, content to ignore them.
Alone at an empty table, too tired to want to talk to anyone just yet, he busies himself with shovelling food in his mouth. Except he can’t help but notice that there are even more eyes on him now. It’s a little strange, but he supposes word will have gotten out by now of how the mission went and he has no doubt everyone has started talking about it. After all, it’s not every day a very fragile hostage situation ends with zero civilian casualties.
Bit of a shame the elated feeling of success has been marred by his head wound, but Soap is still incredibly proud of what the team managed to achieve.
Price is probably expecting his debrief shortly, he realises. His memory of their exfil and returning to base is blurry at best, but he does remember Gaz swearing quietly, frowning in concern at the state of his forehead, and Price radioing in that Soap would need medical attention. He thinks Ghost escorted him to medical when they landed, a hazy image floating through his brain of round, concerned eyes staring down at him through the bone-white mask as he was coaxed to take a seat by a softly spoken medic.
He swears Ghost said something else before he was asked to leave by the medic. A lightly teasing remark about a gnarly scar to toughen his pretty boy image. Soap doesn’t really care about that, but the current staring is becoming increasingly irritating.
Why everyone seems to find his head wound so goddamn fascinating, he has no clue. It’s not like most of them haven’t seen worse. He makes eye contact with the group of marines one table over and they quickly look away, a few of them whispering back and forth. Very fucking subtle. He rolls his eyes, wondering if he should tell Price he needs to make them run extra laps in training later.
He does feel better though with an empty plate and a full stomach, and the painkillers have definitely kicked in. He debates if he can be bothered to grab a coffee—partially because he’s tired and should probably go back to bed, and partially because he’s bored of the stares. He really does want caffeine, though.
Just as he shifts to get up, a large hand clamps down on his shoulder.
“Sergeant,” Ghost greets from behind one of his plain balaclavas.
The tension bleeds out of Soap’s shoulders almost instantly. “Oh. Mornin’, Lt.”
Ghost surprises him then. He squeezes Soap’s nape, gloved fingers warm on his bare skin. “You want coffee?” he asks.
Soap glances up at him, Ghost’s palm almost cupping the back of his neck now. “Er, yeah. If you don’t mind, sir.”
Ghost nods in affirmation, hand lingering for a moment before he moves away.
Soap resists watching him go, but he can see the marines staring at him again in his periphery. It’s getting old real fast. He sits in silence waiting for Ghost to return, irritation building in his gut and pain starting to throb around the wound above his eyebrow from the scowl he can’t quite suppress.
He’s so busy burning a hole into the table and restraining himself from getting up and demanding what the fuck everyone’s problem is, the sudden presence of Ghost at his shoulder makes him jump.
“Steady, Sergeant. Unless you’d like hot coffee thrown over you.”
“Fuck off,” Soap mumbles half-heartedly, taking the coffee and cradling it between his palms.
“Didn’t know that was Scottish for ‘thank you’.”
“Aye, sir. Wait until you find out what—” He stops short, coffee half way to his mouth.
Ghost has sat himself down right beside him, leaving barely a centimetre of space between them. He’s so close their shoulders bump when he drinks his tea, barely revealing his mouth with practised ease as he lifts up the end of the balaclava just enough to take a sip.
Soap leans into the closeness instinctively, even as his head is reeling with it. “You didn’t get any food?” he asks.
“Nah. Already eaten.”
“Are you trynna to tell me you came all the way down here just to get yourself a cuppa? Fancy the exercise or something?”
Ghost turns to him, dark eyes warm. “You weren’t in your room,” he says simply. “I guessed you’d probably woken up hungry and thought I’d find you here.”
“Oh,” Soap says. “Well, you weren’t wrong.”
“Never am.”
“Jesus, sir.” He huffs a low laugh. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got an ego problem?”
“Hm. Did you hear about that cannibal lion with a huge ego?”
Soap blinks. “What?”
“Yeah. Had to swallow his pride.”
“Oh, fuck you,” he groans, knocking his knee into Ghost’s under the table. “That was awful, Lt.”
“Made you laugh, though,” Ghost points out rather smugly, nudging his knee back, keeping their thighs pressed together.
Again, Soap is leaning into the touch without even thinking about it. The warmth is calming and he is very aware of how easily he melts into every single touch Ghost offers.
He sips his coffee, hiding a smile against the rim of the cup when it’s exactly how he likes it. A tad sweet with a dash of milk. His smile disappears when two marines walk past their table, staring openly. Putting the coffee down, he can’t help but stiffen under the scrutiny.
Fucking recruits, he grumbles inwardly. Never know when to mind their own fucking business.
“Is something wrong?” Ghost asks, snapping him out of his head.
Soap shifts awkwardly, glancing at him. “Huh?”
Ghost cocks his head, gaze calculating. The intensity is enough to have Soap’s heart kicking up against his rib cage. With an almost silent sigh, Ghost reaches out and cups the side of Soap’s face. His eyes narrow, gloved thumb brushing gently over the sensitive skin below the stitches on Soap’s brow. “Is it bothering you?”
A beat passes, Soap taken aback by the openly tender touch. “Oh, er.” He clears his throat and says, “No, no, it’s fine.”
“You were tense as shit when I got here. If you keep frowning like that, you’ll give yourself a headache. You barely cleared the concussion check—”
“Hey,” Soap interrupts sharply. “How the fuck do you know that?”
Ghost has the decency to look a little embarrassed, though he doesn’t drop his hand from Soap’s face. “I might’ve asked to see the medic’s report.”
“Of-fucking-course you did.”
“It looked bad, Johnny,” he says, soft but blunt. “I wanted to make sure you were resting if you needed to.”
The back of Soap’s neck is burning now, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He rests his head into Ghost’s palm, warmth thrumming through his veins at the gentle concern in Ghost’s eyes. “I’m fine, Lt, I swear.”
“Alright, if you say so.” Ghost’s thumb grazes over his brow bone before he finally pulls back. “I trust you.”
If there had been eyes on Soap before, it had nothing on the stares the two of them are getting now. Not that any of the recruits had been really trying hard to hide it when Soap had first walked in, but it almost feels insubordinate with how open their gawking is even after Ghost’s hand has dropped away.
Soap downs his coffee in an attempt to hide that the flush has spread from his neck to his cheeks. He’s happy Ghost feels comfortable enough to touch him like that with everyone watching, but he can’t help but wonder what the bloody hell has brought this on.
Ghost is such a reserved, private man.
Even when they’re alone, Soap often feels like the luckiest man alive to have Ghost kiss and touch and cherish him the way he does. It’s overwhelming sometimes, just how much Ghost means to him, how much a simple touch can affect him so deeply just because it’s Ghost—it’s Simon.
He sips his coffee slowly, nudging Ghost’s knee. “How much paperwork is there to do?” he asks.
Ghost’s eyes narrow like they do when he’s annoyed by something. “A shit ton, as always. Could’ve been worse, though.”
“Yeah. At least the casualty report will be quick. Let me know if you need a hand with it, yeah?”
Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve made sure you won’t be bothered today, so just take it easy.”
Warm honey, sweet and thick, settles behind Soap’s rib cage. “Simon,” he whispers, leaning into his side. “That’s not—”
“I know. But you should rest. You’ll feel better for it, and so will I.”
“Sappy bastard.”
“Just for today.” Ghost hooks their ankles together. “I’ll have you running laps and writing reports tomorrow, Sergeant, don’t you worry about that.”
Soap laughs, their shoulders jostling. “Fine, fine. I see how it is.”
Ghost’s eyes are smiling when he meets them. “Well, one of us has to keep up appearances,” he says vaguely, gaze flitting to Soap’s back. “I couldn’t get you out of debrief, though. Price wants to see you later.”
“Yeah, of course. I expected as much.”
“Alright. As long as you feel up to it, though?”
“It’s a minor head wound,” Soap reminds him. “I’m not bedridden or out of commission, Lt.”
“I know, I know. Sorry. I, um. Ah, I gotta get going.”
“Go, go. I’m fine, honestly,” he says. “Come find me when you’re getting lunch?”
“Alright.” Ghost gets up, taking both their empty mugs. “Oh, and nice hoodie by the way.”
Soap glances down at it, suddenly remembering how big it sits over his frame. “Shite. It’s one of yours?”
“Fucking hell, Johnny.” Ghost sounds both amused and exasperated. “No shit, it’s mine.”
“Sorry,” Soap rubs at the back of his neck, “I just grabbed the nearest thing this morning.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Ghost says, surprisingly serious. “You can keep it. I’ll see you later, yeah?”
Soap nods and thanks him, watching him leave, slightly confused by the whole exchange. Eventually he can’t excuse sitting there any longer and he drags himself in Ghost’s footsteps, ignoring all the stares on his way out of the mess hall.
When he gets back to his room, he heads into his small bathroom to relieve himself. He glances at the mirror whilst he washes his hands, eyes glancing over the red wound before settling on the hoodie he’s wearing—Simon’s hoodie. He finds he likes the way it makes his shoulders look smaller, his upper body swimming in the soft fabric.
On closer inspection, he sees there’s a small crest embroidered just over the chest. It looks like one of the old army ones from a training camp or something.
He twists in the mirror and sees there’s something on the back too—looks like lettering of some kind, but he can’t quite read it from that angle. Curious and unable to make out the writing whilst he’s wearing it, he quickly pulls it off over his head.
When he holds it out in front of him, he almost spins around to bang his head against the wall, his cheeks flaming bright red. No fucking wonder everyone has been staring holes into his head all morning.
Embroidered over the back in large, white, bold and glaringly obvious lettering, is LIEUTENANT RILEY.